Pattern of Butchery
by Jacob Flood
Summary: Shakespeare's Richard III in prose. Modern, corporate, everybody's women. Faithful in spirit if not in detail, or in detail if not in spirit. (Abandoned)
1. Act One, Scene One

Rickie limped through the party. The hanging chandeliers burned into her eyes and she sweated under her black suit. She tore into a cocktail sausage and grabbed a handful. She ate by bringing the entire handful up to her mouth and biting whichever piece of meat was closest. Her other hand was tucked tightly in her jacket pocket, with every appearance of having been glued there. From across the room Elizabeth Woodville made a disgusted face, then suppressed it. The mark of good but not quite good enough breeding, thought Rickie, smirking.

She saw their new CEO coming from a long way off. Edwina had been like that as a child. You could hear her coming down a corridor before she entered a room. Rickie would have thought that it couldn't get any worse, but now Edwina had people employed to announce her. It could always get worse.

Rickie tucked her fistful of meat behind her back and bowed low.

'Your majesty,' she said, smiling wide.

Edwina laughed and clapped Rickie hard on the back as she came up from the bow. Pain shot down her spine but she smiled through it.

'That'd make you, what, a baroness?' asked Edwina.

'A duchess,' said Rickie, but Edwina had already moved away, drunk but never staggering, embracing her new bride with barely even a glance towards her mistress. Rickie smiled at everyone, chomped through the sausages, and sought out her other sister.

Georgia and Rickie took a great deal of delight in addressing each other as "Clarence" and "Gloucester": the names of the divisions of the company now under their charge. Out of London too, that had it perks. But it was a little quiet for Rickie, after the clamour and clash of the struggles that had brought them to these seats of power.

Georgia moved away in the direction of Jane Shore and Rickie went to speak to Anne Neville, but neither met with any success. Jane Shore was almost ethereal, and Anne Neville turned and fled to the elderly Mrs Neville at the first sight of Rickie.

And there was no way Rickie was going anywhere near her mother tonight. Or at any following time, if she could help it.

Instead she made her way out of the penthouse and towards the elevators. Once the doors had closed, she straightened. She stretched her legs and rolled her shoulders. She pulled her hand out of her pocket and practiced twisting it into a misshapen claw, a parody of a hand. She grinned. Some gloves would enhance the effect, she thought. By the time the doors opened and let her out in the foyer, she was back to her limping stooped persona again.

Her war wounds did pain her, that was true. It wasn't as if she was lying, not really. She was merely presenting people what they wanted to see. They hated her no matter how upright and dolled-up and pleasant she was. So why bother? If they thought her a monster, she might as well make some effort to look like one. It made it easier for everybody to hate everybody that way.

She walked outside, smiling and greeting the workers, and went across the street to smoke and watch them change the large letters above the doorway from "Lancaster" to "York". She'd been practicing at getting a cigarette out, to her lips, and lit, with only one hand, and didn't slip as the workers watched her while pretending not to.

The only time people hadn't hated her, she remembered, was when she was carving through the opposition to get her sister to the top job. A hostile takeover, she thought, smiling at the memories. Deals that were legitimate but nasty, deals completely off the books, bog-standard bribery and intimidation. All of which paled in comparison to her favourite: the out-of-office activities. When negotiations broke down, Rickie got her hands dirty.

Spring was coming, she thought, but there was still a chill in the air. Time enough to stand like this and enjoy the cold that was her own and wait for the first gear to click into place.

And it did, just as she'd lit her second cigarette. There came Georgia, marched through the foyer by Brakenbury, one of Edwina's flunkies. Edwina had a lot of flunkies these days, but Rickie knew them all. Brakenbury was a devoted stickler. She followed the letter of every instruction handed down by Edwina as if the boss were God Herself. Rickie had always found the younger woman's firm shoulders rather attractive, however.

Rickie took a moment to put on her confused and shocked face, and limped hurriedly over the street to intercept the pair. She dropped her cigarette to indicate a little extra urgency.

'Georgia!' she called. 'Brakenbury! What's the meaning of all this? This is one of our most senior executives you're tugging around.'

'Our most gracious chief executive officer,' said Georgia, 'has appointed this one to take me to be held in the tower.'

The tower was the company's slang term for what the secret services would have called a black site, what Edwina called her personal fortress, and what Rickie called a gateway to delights. Someone standing outside the tower, counting the comings and goings, would notice more people coming in, than going out. A black car with tinted windows pulled around the corner and halted beside where the trio stood.

'What possible reason could our sister have for that?'

'Because my name is Georgia.'

Rickie laughed, then cut it off, her realisation of the statement's seriousness playing out across her face.

'But that isn't your fault,' she said. She threw her free arm wide. 'Edwina might as well drag off our godmother who gave you the name. Maybe she has, and you're due for another christening.' She shook her head. 'But really, what the hell is going on?'

'She wouldn't speak to me,' said Georgia. 'But… you know she's been spending time with that psychic.'

Rickie sneered. 'We used to burn them for witches, in the good old days.'

'Well. This psychic somehow gave Edwina a fascination with the letter "G". That something or someone to do with that letter would be responsible for her daughters not inheriting her estate.'

Here Brakenbury opened her mouth and even got out a syllable, before Rickie spoke over her.

'Seems a little specific, for a psychic.'

'So naturally Edwina assumed it had something to do with me.'

'Prophecies, libels, and dreams. This is not the way a York works. The Woodvilles, however… look to Edwina's wife, plucking her strings again. Remember how those Woodvilles had Hastings sent away? Only just now has she been released! We are not safe, sister, we are not safe.'

'None of us are,' said Georgia, frowning up at the night sky, rendered starless by the city lights. 'Maybe Woodville's own. And little Miss Jane Shore. Did you hear it was her who got Edwina to release Hastings?'

'Indeed,' said Rickie. 'Elizabeth Woodville and Jane Shore: two women who hate each other, yet hold more influence in this company than anyone else.'

Brakenbury cleared her throat. Rickie fixed her withering gaze upon this makeshift jailer. Brakenbury tried to stand straight, then thought better of mocking Rickie's stoop, and tried an awkward and unflattering slouch instead.

'Please, my lady,' she said—and this was a form of address Rickie thought she could use more of in her life—'Mrs Plantagenet told me very clearly, in no uncertain terms, that nobody should speak privately with her sister.'

'Not even little old me?' asked Rickie, grinning.

Brakenbury took a step back. She swallowed. 'Not even you, my lady.'

'There's no sedition here, girl, you can hear it all. File it all in your report. We say—what do we say, Georgia?—that Edwina Plantagenet is wise and virtuous, that her wife Elizabeth has the fine seasoning that comes with age and is never struck with the point of jealousy. We say that Miss Jane Shore has pretty feet, cherry lips, a darting eye, and a voice that could be mistaken for that of a deity. We say that Elizabeth's people are advanced through the ranks of the company thanks to her marriage.'

Rickie wrapped her arm around Georgia's shoulder and looked back and forth between her sister and Brakenbury.

'Well? Do we say a single untruth?'

'Pardon me, my lady, but I must insist on the orders given to me by the head of this company.'

'Which head would that be, then?' asked Rickie.

'We know, Brakenbury,' said Georgia, exhaling. She tugged herself away from her sister and held up a hand to forestall the coming words. 'We know. And I'm going.'

'We are bound by Elizabeth,' said Rickie. 'And Edwina. And to the latter I will go. And if I must call Elizabeth'—she chewed the next word around her mouth—'sister, then I will do it, if it will bring you to freedom.'

'Enough,' said Georgia, grasping Rickie's hand. 'I know your feelings here.'

'It is not enough,' said Rickie, gripping tighter. 'I must let you go now, but not for long. I will restore you to liberty, else be imprisoned myself. Be patient, for just a short while.'

'Can I be but patient?' asked Georgia. She allowed herself to be helped into the car and raised a hand in farewell before the door was closed. Rickie stood and watched the car go. The workers had long since finished their task and run out of excuses to hang around.

A straight road to the tower, thought Rickie. And Georgia would never think to look down any other route. A straight road to her death, if everything was in its right place.

It was a few days later, almost exactly at the same spot, that Rickie ran into Hastings, coming from opposite directions to reach York HQ. Hastings was a bulky woman, with features that looked as if they had been shaped roughly from clay. Rickie had always wanted to punch her in the face, but had hidden that fact so well that Hastings was under the impression the two of them were friends.

'Good morning, Hastings!' cried Rickie. 'Freshly delivered from captivity, I see. Welcome to the open air.'

'Whatever time of day it may be,' said Hastings, 'I wish it good for you.'

Rickie took Hastings inside and settled her on one of the plush couches that lined the foyer.

'But what's the news? Abroad?'

'Nothing worse than here,' said Hastings. 'The York matriarch is sick. Weak. She falls into fits of… they call it melancholy.' She looked up. 'The doctors and relatives circle like vultures.'

Rickie shook her head. 'I told her. Fine food and fine wine… but she would never listen. Now…' Her voice cracked. 'Is she in her bed?' Hastings nodded. 'Go. I need a moment.'

'Of course,' said Hastings. She rose and headed for the elevators. Rickie waited until the doors had closed before she wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Enough performance for the workers who littered the edges of the foyer. All of them knew who she was. She would have been unmistakable, even without her affectations.

Edwina could not die, not yet, thought Rickie. Not without Georgia being got rid of first. But all things moved towards their end. Edwina, really, only needed to last the day. And with both gone, the world would be left for Rickie to bustle in. It was time, she thought, to think of finding a wife.


	2. Act One, Scene Two

Anne Neville walked behind the coffin of Henrietta, the former CEO of the company, and her mother-in-law. She followed the bearers down into the mausoleum and watched as the body was transferred to its tomb. She bade the bearers leave. There were no other mourners. Everybody else had made their new allegiances to Edwina Plantagenet very clear.

Anne knelt, and wept, and cursed. She wept for Henrietta, and for her own wife. Both dead at the hands of that… hideous, unnatural creature. Anne cursed Gloucester, cursed her as toad, as crawling spider, as poisonous snake. Cursed her to feel the pain that Anne herself now felt.

She heard footsteps coming down the stairs. Footsteps whose uneven pattern was unmistakeable. Anne held her breath. She resisted the urge to wipe away her tears. Let that heartless wretch see what she had done. Anne heard the newly-titled Gloucester's footsteps move past her, then halt by the side of the tomb, the great stone slab that kept Henrietta from the air.

'You tremble, lady,' came Gloucester's voice.

Anne couldn't suppress a laugh.

'And why shouldn't I?' she said. She met the murderer's gaze. 'Us mere mortals cannot endure the presence of such a devil.' She rested a hand on the tomb. 'You may have put her here, but you have no more power over her. Leave her be. And leave me be.'

'Sweet lady,' said Gloucester, 'can you not be more… charitable?'

'Charitable?' said Anne. 'You… you turn my days and nights into hell, you deformed lump, you bloodless butcher, and you ask me to be charitable?'

Gloucester leaned on the stone. 'I cannot disagree,' she said. 'I have wronged you.'

'Ha! Devils can taste truth on their tongues after all.'

'And angels can cast fire with theirs.' Gloucester took a step closer. 'Please, let me… acquit myself.'

Anne rose and swung herself around the other side of the tomb. A great heavy expanse of stone between them, she thought. If only she could heave it up and drop it upon Gloucester's head.

'I did not kill your wife,' said Gloucester.

'Then she is alive,' said Anne.

'Killed by Edwina's hand.'

'A foul lie from a foul throat. Margaret saw your blade red with my wife's blood.' Anne slammed her palm on the tomb. Her hand stung raw from the blow but still she kept her eyes fixed on Gloucester. She hoped Henrietta would forgive her. 'And your former boss, dead between us, dead by your hand.'

Gloucester looked at her for a moment, then away. 'That one, yes, I'll give you that one.'

'You'll give me?' snarled Anne. 'Then give me a way to send you to hell. Then can be no other place for you, after what you've done.'

Gloucester smiled, in a slow way that made Anne want to lunge forward and scratch out the damned woman's eyes.

'One other place,' said Gloucester. 'In your bed, against your sweet bosom.'

Anne was silent for a time. Her thoughts, she found, were blank. Stunned into scattering away and leaving her bereft of words. Her mouth hung slightly open and she slammed it shut. Her teeth ached down at the roots and something was clawing in her stomach.

'Now, my sweet lady, be not unreasonable,' said Gloucester, holding out her un-twisted hand.

'Unreasonable?' said Anne. 'Unrea—it would be entirely, completely reasonable, to murder you where you stand. No widow would ever argue otherwise.'

She spat, and felt a small piece of pride that she hit her target. Gloucester wiped the spittle from her face with a handkerchief without malice, merely seeming bemused.

'Would that it were mortal poison,' added Anne.

'Never came poison from so sweet a place,' said Gloucester.

Anne rolled her eyes. Gloucester leaned across the tomb and took Anne's hand. To the latter's surprise, the grip was secure, but soft. Approaching tender, she added with surprise, noticing that Gloucester appeared to be close to tears.

'Would that those eyes were those of a basilisk, to strike me dead,' she said. 'But your lips were made for kissing, lady, not contempt. If you cannot forgive me, then here.' She trod around the tomb, still holding Anne's hand, and together they pulled Gloucester's knife from her coat.

'Here,' said Gloucester. She knelt, and directed the point of the blade to hover an inch from her chest. 'I lend you this. And if it please you to plunge it forth, I will not stop you.' She took her hand away, leaving Anne's hand alone and the point wavering. 'Strike!' said Gloucester, pulling open her shirt. 'It was I who killed Henrietta… but it was your beauty that spurred me on. It was I who killed your wife… but it was your heavenly face that provoked me.'

Anne dropped the knife. It clattered on the stone and spun a little, its point facing sideways towards the tomb. Anne took a step back, but Gloucester grabbed her before she could move farther.

'Take up the knife,' she said. 'Or take up me.'

Anne shook her head. She gestured for Gloucester to get up, who did not.

'I wish your death,' said Anne, looking away. 'But I will not be your executioner.'

Gloucester let go of Anne and held her hand over the knife, and let it hover there, without a tremble to be seen. Anne couldn't meet the other woman's eyes.

'Then bid me take it up, and I will kill myself.'

'I did that already,' said Anne. Though in truth, her previous rush of words were vanished from her mind.

'That was in rage,' said Gloucester. 'Say it again, and I will do it, with this hand that, for your love, did kill your love, and, for your love, shall kill a far truer love.'

Anne swallowed. She made herself meet Gloucester's gaze. The emotion on her face seemed genuine, and her words had made something lighten in Anne's gut, but… there was the real world to consider. With Edwina in charge, with the company changed from Lancaster to York, there was little place for Anne. But at Gloucester's side, with her protection…

'I wish I knew your heart,' said Anne.

'It is in my words,' said Gloucester. Still she had not risen.

'I fear both are false.'

'Then never was woman honest.'

Anne was surprised with how little she chewed over her next words.

'Well, then put away your knife.'

Gloucester did so, and rose, a smile edging onto her face.

'Then… may I live in hope?' she asked. Anne was silent. 'Here,' said Gloucester, fumbling with an inside pocket. 'Wear this ring of mine, and as it encloses your finger, so too is my heart enclosed within yours.' She pulled a silver ring out, unostentatious in its make, but Anne knew enough to recognise fine craftsmanship when she saw it. Anne allowed it to be slipped onto a finger.

'Thank you,' murmured Anne, watching the ring catch the moonlight that filtered down into the mausoleum.

'Please, lady, leave this place,' said Gloucester. 'Come to Gloucester, if you will. I will remain and make my devotions. Bid me farewell?'

Anne was silent again for a moment, consciously composing her words. 'It is more than you deserve,' she said. 'But since… but since you teach me how to flatter you, imagine I have said farewell already.'

Her head inclined for the faintest of moments, her skirts swished, and she was gone.

Rickie restrained her surprised burst of laughter for a full five minutes. She straightened, laughed again, and laid an appreciative hand on Henrietta's tomb. The old boss would have been more disbelieving than Rickie herself was, she thought. Things had been made ready at her estate to receive such a wife—though Anne would not stay long.

Rickie leaned back and ran over her memories of the conversation, making sure that it had, in fact, happened. To murder and murder and then… nothing to support her but her plain words, her mock-twisted features, and still she'd won!

It was time for the cripple to come out of her shell, Rickie thought. Invest in some finer, flashier suits, and not flinch from every looking glass or a stray reference to her form. Time to embrace what she had become, what the world and her own will had shaped herself into.

She caught sight of her shadow in the moonlight and, watching it return to a hunched, curled form, smiled and trod out into the night.


End file.
